Infernal Revolutions (41 page)

For a few moments everyone stopped talking and turned towards me. With tankards, pots and pipes poised halfway to mouths, the scene resembled a piece of Dutch portraiture entitled
Interior of New York Tavern, 1776
. Then, Mars melted by Venus, all faces softened, and people started moving again. Grog was called for, and duly supplied once the tavern owner had established who was paying for it. We were toasted with repeated cries of ‘A Long And Happy Life!', a ridiculous toast in the circumstances, but appreciated and seemingly possible in the elation of the moment. ‘To the King and his Queen' was another, though this made Sophie frown, until I explained to her that we were the royal couple so addressed, and reminded her that the tavern was, at least for the time being, British, and therefore susceptible to metaphors of a royal nature.

A resting fifer leapt up to volunteer his services, and after a few peremptory toots on his instrument he serenaded us with a breezy rendition of
The World Turned Upside Down
, a highly appropriate choice given the somersaults my stomach had performed in the last few weeks. Sophie, on the other hand, looked as serene and buoyant as a swan, as though her world had just righted itself at last. Still, I was happy that she was happy, and I proceeded to throw myself into the impromptu celebrations with gusto. We danced and we sang and we drank with hearts made even fuller by the friendliness and generosity of the tavern patrons. Indeed, on many occasions I was close to more tears, and had to revive myself with copious draughts of grog, which went down so quickly that I soon forgot the errand Isaac Tetley had run for me. Until, that is, his return.

‘I cannot leave you alone for five minutes, can I, Oysterman?'

I looked around and saw Isaac Tetley standing on the edge of the makeshift dancefloor, huge fists resting on hips, elbows sticking out like handles. With a contemptuous curl on the corner of his mouth, he turned his huge head from side to side and surveyed the scene.

‘Who's that prig?' shouted fearless Sophie, loud enough for George Washington to hear, let alone Isaac Tetley. ‘And what's his game?'

‘He is a friend, sweetie. Let me introduce you…'

‘He is no friend of yours if he speaks to you like that.'

‘'Tis just his manner. He talks to everyone the same way.'

‘That is no reason for you to put up with it. See what he wants, sweetie, then get rid of him. This is our night.'

‘Some drab you've just met?' said Isaac, as we made our way to quietest corner of the tavern.

‘That
drab
, Sir, as you call her,' I said coolly, ‘is the one and only Sophie B. Mecklenburg, The Limping Lady Of The Lowlands, the love of my life, and the companion I was telling you about earlier. And tomorrow she becomes my wife, hence the celebrations.'

‘You? A husband? My God, now I have heard it all!'

I seemed to recall a similar response to the disclosure that I was a spy, and I was getting sick of it. In my opinion the remark – and especially the tone in which it was delivered – crossed the thin line between good-natured ragging and outright insult, and a murderous rage welled up inside me as a result. Had Isaac been half the size he was I would have pummelled him to a pulp, but as it was I could only glare at him and demand that he tell me, before leaving us to enjoy ourselves, what news he had.

‘The news, Oysterman,' said Isaac, unperturbed, ‘is that you were right to be suspicious about Burnley Axelrod.'

My heart began to beat faster when I heard this, and my inners turned to ice.

‘I was?'

‘Aye – he was after your blood, all right. Evidenced by these…'

Liking the sound of the
was
, I watched while he pulled out of his jacket pocket a thick packet of papers, and handed them to me without comment.

‘Not more coded messages,' I said weakly, turning to scrutinize them under the feeble glow of the nearest lantern.

‘No, not coded at all. On the contrary they are communications of the most blatant sort. Love letters, mostly, from someone called Amanda Philpott.'

‘Amanda Philpott!' I repeated, amazed. ‘What has she to do with all this?'

‘Read, and you will find out.'

‘I cannot read all these here, in my state, in this light. Can't you just summarize events for me?'

‘A summary, Oysterman, would go something like this. I discover Mr Axelrod in his lodgings, enjoying a
bath
with two whores and a hogshead of brandy…' I could tell by his intonation that he found the idea of a bath more decadent than the two whores and the brandy. ‘…I send the whores packing, then very politely ask the naked rogue what his business is with my friend, Mr Oysterman…'

‘You gave him my name?'

‘Indeed, Sir. How else could I have got the information out of him?'

I groaned, and asked him to proceed.

‘At first he is surly, and professes never to have heard of you. Then I grab his arm and twist it behind his back, threatening first to snap his arm in two, and then his back. He is even surlier at this treatment, and snarls like the dog he is. Then I threaten to drown him in his bath water, reminding him that I have drowned Frenchmen in their bowls of onion soup before now. He remembers your name this time, points with his free hand to a cabinet, and tells me I will find in there everything I need to know. Not trusting him, I keep the armlock on, and drag the bath to the cabinet with me, slopping water everywhere. I pull out the correspondence you now have in your possession, and politely ask him to give me his own interpretation of their meaning, in case there is not everything I need to know in there after all. I use his arm as a lever to disgorge words, and what emerges, as far as I can understand, is that the rogue has been conducting a highly improper affair with the Amanda Philpott woman behind your back.'

‘I don't mind!' I babbled, wondering where all this was leading. ‘He can conduct an affair with her right under my nose for all I care. He can have her!'

‘Not up to New Jersey standards of beauty then?'

‘No,' I said categorically, too absorbed in plot machinations to care whether he was being sarcastic.

‘Rich though, is she not?'

‘Yes, why?'

‘Because that is the crux of the matter, I believe. Nothing can set a rogue's heart racing like a rich, ugly, lonely woman.'

I did not like to hear a lady's looks being so traduced, even Amanda's.

‘She is not
that
ugly,' I felt obliged to defend. ‘I've seen worse.'

‘But you turned her down.'

‘That is because I am not a rogue. My heart rules my head in matters of love, Sir.'

‘A philosophy obviously shared by Miss Philpott, because there is a distinct lack of head in the letter which caused all the trouble.'

‘There is?' I said, staring down at the pile in my hand. ‘Is it here?'

‘Somewhere.'

‘Addressed to Burnley?'

‘No, addressed to you, Sir. Obviously Mr Axelrod has the post rider in his pocket.'

I took a deep breath.

‘And what does this letter say, as far as you can understand?'

Isaac ploughed in with relish, untroubled by sensitivity to the sufferings of others.

‘That she needs proof of your death before she will consent to marry Axelrod.'

‘The stupid cow!' I exclaimed, after a few moments of wide-eyed horror. ‘Fancy telling a dragoon that. She has sentenced me to death!'

‘I don't think there is much chance of that now. I scared the rogue so much he will think twice about pursuing his plan further.'

‘Did he admit that he engineered my excursion into the hellish Hackensack for the express purpose of having me killed?'

‘Not in so many words. Even I couldn't get that out of him. But best to assume he did.'

I proceeded to think out loud, trying to make sense of these shocking and frightening disclosures.

‘So, he sent me into the Hackensack Valley in the hope that I would be killed by a rebel. But perhaps he was only toying with the idea, and my safe return might have been the end of the matter. But now he has revenge as a motive: against you and against me, by association.'

‘He will not exact revenge on me, that is for certain.'

‘Violence breeds violence,' I muttered, highly agitated. ‘Diplomacy was called for after all, not torture.'

‘Then you should have gone yourself.'

‘I was going to, but you appropriated the situation.'

‘I was bored, I needed action. Anyway, polite enquiry would not have got this information out of him. On the contrary, he would probably have murdered you there and then, and posted your head in a box to Amanda Philpott as proof. Diplomacy, as you call it, works only when ‘tis based on a position of physical strength. Now he has been smashed by my iron fist, you can tickle him as much as you like with your velvet glove.'

I did not want to tickle anyone with a velvet glove; no, not even Sophie. I did, however, desperately want to read the letters in my possession, and decide for myself the most appropriate course of action, but I could not do this while Sophie was enjoying herself so much. I determined therefore to put as brave a face on it as I could, and rejoin the celebrations – a man's marriage, after all, being more important than his death. It would also be the best way of slapping Isaac Tetley in the face, for, if I was not mistaken, he relished bringing me bad news, and liked my nervous reactions to it.

‘Oh well, what is done is done, Mr Tetley,' I said, pulling myself together with several deep breaths. ‘Thank you for your efforts. Now, I must return to the ball. Are you a dancing man, sir? A devotee of the gavotte perhaps?'

‘Sometimes, Oysterman, I think you do not take life seriously enough.'

‘Strange – I was under the impression that I took it too seriously. Now, Sir…' I offered him the crook of my arm, ‘…a jig?' After all, ‘tis not every night an Oysterman marries.'

As expected, the rogue was off in a flash, cursing my frivolity and no doubt my ingratitude too, but I'd had enough of him, so that was that.

‘That looked intense, sweetie,' said Sophie, as I took my rightful place in her arms. ‘Trouble?'

‘Just a sailor I came over from England with,' I said, adjusting my dancing position so that my bulging pocket did not knock against her. ‘And you know what these sailors are like – yarn, yarn, yarn.'

‘Ah well, at least he's gone now, and we can get on with celebrating my last night as a Mecklenburg, and your last night as a single man.'

Or perhaps even my last night as a man, I thought, pushing up a wide smile with enormous effort and keeping it there, permanently fixed, until a convenient moment arrived to take a temporary leave. Then, on the pretext of easing my sluices, I dashed outside to the nearest flaming cresset and tore into the packet Isaac had delivered to me.

I read, absorbed and trembling, as one letter after another paid tribute to Burnley's powers as a Man, a Lover, and a Beast, a typical one being the encomium of 15
^th
July 1776:

This was shocking enough, but then I came to the letter that Isaac had referred to, the Crux of the Whole Matter:

Shaking my head in disbelief at this crass piece of stupidity, I wondered if I really did have ratty eyes. And dithery worm indeed! With her I may have been, for it was the best I could muster in the circumstances, a mere half-harded attempt to do my duty. With Sophie all was different – a love based on mutual admiration, respect and loyalty, and frighteningly stiff as a result. Yes, I just about convinced myself, I was sure I was more of a man than Burnley would ever be, despite his brawn.

I was still mulling over these heavy matters when I became aware that I was being watched. Twirling round, I found myself face to face with Sophie, whose pie eyes moved slowly from my letters to my forehead and back again.